


by any other name

by to-the-voiceless (larkgrace)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Established Relationship, F/M, of trying to figure out how firmly you have Stepped In It, the horrendously awkward early-relationship stage, what do you get for the girl who only craves violence? flowers i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkgrace/pseuds/to-the-voiceless
Summary: He produced the little white cardpaper box from its spot at his side, balanced carefully on one palm, the cutout for the lid’s makeshift latch facing outward. “I hope you find it to your liking,” he told her, even as her eyebrows raised in surprise.“You did not have to get anything,” she told him, though she reached for the box regardless, obvious curiosity overtaking her.“I happened to spot it on my way over and thought of you,” he said, nonchalant as he could manage while she fumbled at the box with her gloved thumb.She finally wedged her fingers under the lid, prised it open, and Aymeric had a perfect view of her open curiosity flickering to a frown of confusion as she peered into the box. Her eyebrows descended to furrow around the arrow of scales on her forehead. She scooped the corsage up, cradling the arrangement in one gloved palm, and asked, “Is this a joke?”—In which Aymeric stumbles upon a piece of personal trivia—and faceplants.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	by any other name

**Author's Note:**

> happy wolmeric week! i actually wrote this last september for the FFXIVWrite challenge, but since i didn't have time to write anything _new_ this week, i figured i would dust it off and send it out into the wilds of ao3. i hope you enjoy!
> 
> yes the title is from that romeo and juliet quote, no i'm not happy about it either.

Truthfully, it was a fanciful impulse that drove Aymeric to buy the corsage. The city was draped in bright colors and fabric floral arrangements for the Feast of Saint Reinette; Hanami had some obligation in Ul’dah in the evening—invented, at a guess, to avoid the feast at Fortemps Manor, not that he could truly blame her for declining the invitation—but when he had asked her to join him for a turn about the city to watch the afternoon festivities, she had agreed, which was how he found himself waiting at the edge of the Last Vigil with a florist’s box in his hands.

This was all relatively new to him, truth be told. He was familiar with the forms and formulae of courtship, even if it was not something he himself had found time for in years. Even now, it felt odd to think of this thing between himself and Hanami as _courting—_ she had no patience for propriety, no need for escorts or gifts or formality. No expectations or demands beyond that which he would offer her as a friend, before aught else. It was almost liberating, if unfamiliar, and most _definitely_ uncouth—which he supposed fit rather nicely with her general demeanor. Her cavalier approach to courting often left him at ends where gifts were concerned; she had no taste for sweets or trinkets or anything traditional, as far as he had found, and while he knew she appreciated the practical things in life there was something frankly _depressing_ about presenting one’s beloved with a pair of socks for feast days, regardless of how much she might like them.

Which brought him to the flowers. Live blooms had been worth their weight in gold since Dalamud’s fall, though with the war’s end and the influx of trade from the Shroud the scarcity has eased somewhat. A Gridanian florist had caught his eye on the walk from his home to the Vigil, with displays of artfully arranged blossoms in a rainbow of colors, and he had paid for one almost without thinking. Lush, but not ostentatious, and hopefully a suitable surprise for Hanami.

He was so caught up in his own reverie that he nearly missed her cresting the Vigil, only alerted by the click of her boots against the steps as she jogged down, shoulders hunched against the spring breeze. Her hands were tucked under her arms, tugging at the shoulders of a thick wool coat. He couldn’t help the smile that overtook him at her approach; she was dressed neatly, by Ishgardian standards, not elegantly, but her coat was dyed a deep forest green instead of her habitual black and the light blue and cheerful brown of her pants and boots were far from her norm. Her version, he thought, of festive.

“Hi,” she said, breathless and bright with her approach. “Sorry. Hilda caught me. She says hello.”

He offered her a shallow bow in return—fumbled with his useless hands, given that her own were still tucked under her arms, rather complicating his urge to kiss her fingers—and said, “Please, do not apologize. Your company is well worth the wait.” Not that she was actually _late,_ but one of her more delightful quirks seems to be that _on time_ for her meant _a quarter-bell early._ “You look lovely today,” he added, because it was true and he felt helpless with it, as he so often did in her presence.

Hanami shrugged, though her wind-flushed cheeks darkened just a smidge. “Better than armor,” she said, and tilted her head toward the airship landing, and the stairs that would lead down to Foundation. “Ready?”

“Nearly.” He produced the little white cardpaper box from its spot at his side, balanced carefully on one palm, the cutout for the lid’s makeshift latch facing outward. “I hope you find it to your liking,” he told her, even as her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You did not have to get anything,” she told him, though she reached for the box regardless, obvious curiosity overtaking her.

“I happened to spot it on my way over and thought of you,” he said, nonchalant as he could manage while she fumbled at the box with her gloved thumb.

She finally wedged her fingers under the lid, prised it open, and Aymeric had a perfect view of her open curiosity flickering to a frown of confusion as she peered into the box. Her eyebrows descended to furrow around the arrow of scales on her forehead. She scooped the corsage up, cradling the arrangement in one gloved palm, and asked, “Is this a joke?”

Aymeric couldn’t quite maintain his smile as his stomach bottomed out, but he managed to restrain himself to what he hoped was a blank expression, rather than a frown. “Not an intentional one,” he assured her, watching her regard the flowers like a puzzle—a jolt of nerves rocked him as he wondered if he’d somehow stumbled upon some hideous faux pas, or perhaps worse. He didn’t buy her sweets or pastries to avoid exacerbating her allergies; were the flowers _harmful_ to her? But she hadn’t made any move to put them down, and, he reminded himself, in a deliberate bid at calm, that she was an avid gardener given the chance; surely she would have mentioned any adverse reactions to the local flora. “I apologize if I’ve misstepped, regardless,” he said, at a loss for what else to do.

The look she gave him was curious: not upset, but searching. She quirked a brow at him again, nearly vanishing into the line of her bangs, and whatever she saw must have been satisfactory, because she shook her head and said, “You really—? Never mind. It is nothing.”

“May I…” he stumbled for a moment, unsure if he should move to take the flowers back, given that she hadn’t moved to dispose of them herself. “May I ask what in particular was unsatisfactory? Only to avoid a repetition of the mistake in the future.”

Hanami shrugged, and though she still looked down at the corsage he could barely see the edge of a grimace. “It is not that bad,” she said. “Just—my name. I thought you were making a joke about it. You would not be the first.”

Which, if he had thought to make a list of possible catalysts for her reaction, would not have appeared on it _anywhere._ “I’m afraid I don’t quite catch your meaning,” he said, folding the lid of the box closed for want of other occupation for his hands. “You mean to say that...you have been mocked for your name?” Not that it was _entirely_ out of the realm of possibility, to his eternal disgust—some of his more _opinionated_ countrymen would stoop to depths unfathomably low in order to find ammunition for the barbs they so enjoyed to sling at her, even if her status as Ishgard’s savior spared her such insults in the open now, but surely—

“Not like you are thinking.” She shrugged again, finally tilting her head up to look at him, her confusion melting away to something pinched, but not angry. “My name is...ah, ‘hanami’ is also a festival in my homeland. For watching flower blossoms. ‘Hana’ is our word for flower. I am sure you can imagine the rest.”

He could, actually, with a flicker of memory for a distant cousin of his named Estelle and her boundless suffering every Starlight, and he was torn briefly between sympathy and the sudden, suicidal urge to laugh.

“It would seem I have much to learn,” he said instead, the pressure on his chest easing somewhat as his gut untwisted itself. “I can take that, if you prefer,” he added, holding his hand out for the corsage. “There is no shortage of railings between here and the forum that could use a bit of brightening.” And no shortage of celebrants who would be happy to pluck the flowers for themselves, wind-rumpled or not.

To his amazement, though, Hanami clutched her hand closer. “I will wear it,” she said, firm. “It looks nice.”

Her eyes were bright, her jaw set, and rather than argue Aymeric simply smiled again and folded the box along its corners to tuck into his pocket. “Would you like some assistance?” he asked.

She nodded once, and—he felt his heart stutter at the sight, foolish as it was—reached up to tug her hair loose from its high ponytail. “Here,” she said, remarkably quiet, and turned to face into the gentle breeze, offering the corsage over her shoulder.

He stripped his gloves off with trembling hands, tucking them away into his coat as he plucked the arrangement from her. The usual fashion was to wear such pieces behind the ears, but given her horns he wasn’t quite sure how it would work—he reached instead to finger-comb her hair with a murmured word of warning, pulling the long fall of it behind her shoulders while he contemplated. Her hair was beautiful, lustrous and soft, falling straight and thick to the middle of her back now that it hung loose. The brilliant spring pink shimmered in the sunlight, catching white in places—this close he could just make out the shadow at her hairline where her roots were growing in dark, a mere suggestion of a shadow. He had toyed with her hair before, but not often, with her tendency to tie it up and out of her way. He luxuriated in the chance now, working the wave from her hairband loose, caught in the silken slide between his fingers. Her hair was so long he could wind it around his forearm with ease, he thought, and tilt her head back for a kiss.

He refrained, not least because he remembered well the noise she had made the _last_ time he had tugged at her hair, and it really was not one meant for polite company—or _any_ company. Instead he gathered the frontmost sections in his fingers and tugged them back along the curve of her skull, twisting them a bit as he went; it had been long enough since he had braided hair that he didn’t feel confident in attempting it on such a small scale, or without a comb handy, but her hair was so slick and fine that he suspected the corsage’s clip would simply slide loose without something to anchor it. He wound the twisted strands around each other a few times, pulling gently to tighten them against her head—he felt her shudder under his hands and did his very best to ignore it—and then pinched the join in his fingers while he looped the trailing tails up and over, until they fell through the arc of the twisted strands and lay flat against her hair. He plucked the corsage from her waiting hand and fastened the clip in place of his fingers, giving one last gentle brush against her shoulders before he lowered his hands.

Not particularly elaborate, but it was neat and sturdy, and when Hanami reached back to touch the corsage she nodded in approval. It looked, he thought, quite nice: there was a thick bundle of blooms concealing the clip, trailing down to dangling flowers that swayed slightly with each movement, the whole arrangement the same blue as the spring sky.

“How does it look?” Hanami asked, turning to face him as she lowered her own hands.

He caught her fingers in his own, finally, and stooped to brush a kiss across her gloved knuckles. “You look beautiful,” he said, earnest and proud, mesmerised by the way the loose fall of her hair seemed to soften the angles of her face.

She twisted her hands free of his own before he could surrender them, only to seize him by the wrists and bring his hands to her own mouth, pressing a warm kiss to his bare palms. “At least it is not pink,” she said, with a squeeze to the heels of his hands. And then—in a motion that left him almost as breathless as inhaling a winter wind, she guided his hand to the side of her head, brushing his fingers along the curve of her horn and closing her eyes at the touch. The ridges and whorls of bone seemed impossibly intricate under his fingers, and he marveled at the texture as he dared to seize her invitation and stroke his thumb over the surface, just for a heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered open again, briefly, and finally she favored him with an open smile, turning once more to press a kiss to his palm before she released him.

He huffed a laugh, spurred by the warm flush that filled him at her touch. “I daresay you have more than enough of that,” he told her, and rather than retrieve his gloves he laced his fingers through her own, trusting in her hands to warm him. “Shall we go?”

Hanami nodded, the flowers swaying behind her with the movement, and with a careful tug guided him toward the airship landing and the revelry that awaited.


End file.
